


i’ll be drunk again (to feel a little love)

by griffenly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:12:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griffenly/pseuds/griffenly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Scott's idea, surprisingly. </p><p>or, the one where the pack winds up at a bar</p>
            </blockquote>





	i’ll be drunk again (to feel a little love)

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I am unabashed Stydia trash, and this is the culmination of that. Cheers, folks.

It is Scott's idea, surprisingly. 

It has been a hell of a year, a hell of a  _lifetime_ , honestly, between all the supernatural beacons and the near-death experiences and the  _actual_ losses - the ones that still cut through Lydia like a cold, harsh dagger, reopening the poorly-sutured stitches of her tender flesh, their names eternally branded into the scars of her heart.  _Allison, Allison, Allison. Aiden, Aiden, Aiden._

So many people she's lost. So many people she almost got to keep. 

It is Scott's idea, and naturally Stiles latches onto it immediately. He gives Lydia that classic raise of his eyebrows, his grin a crooked stain across his face - not quite as wide and carefree as it had once been, before Donovan and the Nogitsune and... and  _everything_ , really - but it still pulls a smile upon her own lips, still causes her eyes to roll of their own volition (a habit, at this point, more than anything else). And so she relents, and Stiles cheers and throws his fists into the air. Scott grabs Kira, and Lydia grabs Malia - because even though all the lies had stretched her and Stiles' relationship too thin, she is still pack. Besides, she and Stiles are fine now, as far as Lydia knows. 

Liam somehow finds his way along, too, with Mason, who brings _Brett_ (the latest item of Beacon Hills, which makes Lydia smile some more). When Scott attempts to open his mouth to object, Liam raises a single eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest in a show of confidence that has Lydia smothering a laugh behind her hand. "You're going to need a DD," he states firmly, and Scott sighs.

"Fine. Just be careful, alright?"

"Why would  _I_ have to be careful if  _you're_ the ones drinking?"

"Just  _listen_ to me."

"Fine, fine,  _Dad_." 

And so there they are, two days before prom, at some bar with a sleazy name just on the periphery of Beacon Hills. The music is blaring through the speakers so loudly Lydia can't even hear the words. She's three drinks in, and she sees Scott and Kira dancing together, slower than the music warrants, their faces pressed closely together and their chests heaving against each other. It makes her heart ache, after everything they went through this year, after all they suffered. She sees Mason and Brett in one of the shadowy corners, and Liam shifting uncomfortably by the bar, which makes her crack a grin. The alcohol is buzzing just beneath her bones - a soft, warm, fuzzy feeling - that makes her loose and  _happy_ for the first time a very long time. She leans her head back against the now-empty booth, Malia having disappeared to dance with some girl and Stiles probably passed out somewhere or something. She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths.

This - this looseness to her bones, this easy way she can close her eyes without the nightmares - is  _nice_. It's  _nice_ to not feel like she has to be looking over her shoulder every goddamned minute. 

"Hey, sleepyhead, look alive," a voice calls, interrupting her from her stupor. 

Lydia opens her eyes and sees Stiles, the front of his shirt wet because he spilled half of his first beer all over himself like the idiot he is. He slips into the booth beside her, sliding her a bottle of water and another drink. He smirks at her raised eyebrows, and says, "Hey, hangovers  _suck_ , but no way in hell you get to be less drunk than the rest of us." 

"You don't seem that drunk." She takes a sip of her drink, and he laughs - an open, fearless thing; loud and bubbling and sounding so  _alive_ that it makes a grin stretch over Lydia's lips so tightly it hurts. Because she  _missed_ him, damn it. She missed the way he could read her so easily, missed the way he would crack a joke to ease the tension, missed his easy presence at her back in any situation. And he was  _there_ , always - of course he was - but... but after Donovan, it wasn't the same. He was detached, twitching, a hollowed out form of the vibrant Stiles she knew. 

And she did know him. So well.

She still remembers finding him passed out on the floor of his bedroom a week after the attack, his wound spreading and infected and all kinds of horrifying She remembers having to rush him to the ER, and calling Scott and the Sheriff and not being able to  _breathe_ , the words constricting in her throat where the air had stopped entering, the worry and the - the something  _else_ , that she didn't like to think about - dripping into her bloodstream. 

Lydia doesn't realize she's spoken aloud, or how  _much_ (damn alcohol and all that it does), until she catches the furrow of Stiles' brow, the soft way he murmurs her name like she's something precious, something he may break if he holds it too close. 

"Lydia... I'm fine, now. I swear," he murmurs, and she nods hastily, blinking rapidly and avoiding eye contact to try and lose the sheen to her eyes. She bites her bottom lip and runs her finger along the curve of her glass, and she sees the slight tremor there. But as she's watching, Stiles' hand slowly comes p and catches her fingers within his own, tugging them away from the glass and twining them together so that she can't tell where he ends and she begins. He places them on the table between their glasses, and uses his other hand to gently tilt her chin towards him so their eyes meet. 

"I'm okay," he half-whispers, and she wonders how the hell she can still hear him over the music and the crowd and the sound of her heart thudding in her chest.

"I said that to you, once," she laughs suddenly, because the deja vu is _killing_ her. And he grins back, that wild, untamed thing, so much like the boy himself.

"Yeah," he mutters, ducking his head, "I remember. You were lying."

Lydia shrugs. "So were you." 

"I mean it this time, though."

They sit in silence for a bit, his hand dropping from her chin but their fingers remaining entangled. It's an easy silence, companionable, and she wonders how they came this far. How they went from two strangers, moving past each other without making contact (how she never noticed him, ignored the shy smiles and the embarrassingly bad advances). And yet now, here they sit, shoulders and thighs pressed together, hands locked together, practically one being. 

"Go to prom with me," Stiles whispers, and Lydia snorts. 

"I cannot believe you are asking me that in a  _bar_ , of all places. And two days before. _Seriously_."

"You're going  _anyway_!"

"That's true."

"So go with me."  
She considers him, eyes roaming over his face, at the hope and fear mingling in his expression. "Why?" she finally asks.

He visibly tenses, and she squeezes his hand in reassurance, to force him onward. He licks his lips, eyes flitting from her eyes to her own lips, and she  _knows_. _God_ does she know. 

And because they've almost died a thousand times at this point, and because once she walked past him without a word, and because his smile makes her forget the world for a little bit, because it's inevitable and... and because of  _everything_ , she leans forward and captures his lips with hers.

He tastes like cheap beer and sweat and long-ago promises.

He tastes like  _home_ _,_ and she hates herself for the predictability of it all.

He kisses her back immediately, his hand reaching up to cradle her face and clutch her closercloser _closer_. But then he breaks it, after a moment, his forehead dropping against hers and his hot, fast pants brushing against her skin. "I wasn't having a panic attack," he says stupidly, and laughter explodes out of her and shakes both of their bodies.

"I know."

"Then... then why did you..."

"Yes," she says instead. "My answer is yes."

His smile lights up the whole goddamned room, and she hears Scott whistling from the dance floor, and Stiles flicks him off - and Lydia thinks this was definitely,  _definitely_ worth it. 


End file.
